I experience psychic phenomena, so people think I must be crazy.

Host: The rain had stopped, but the city was still wet — every streetlight haloed in reflected amber, every puddle shimmering like a restless mirror. From the second floor of a small downtown theater, the sounds of the night leaked faintly through open windows: car horns, a saxophone, laughter carried by wind.

Inside, on a half-lit stage scattered with costumes, scripts, and a single piano, Jack and Jeeny sat in folding chairs near the footlights. The room smelled of makeup powder, dust, and memory — the ghosts of performances long gone.

The lights above them flickered softly as though reacting to some invisible pulse. A line from the last rehearsal still lingered on the chalkboard behind them:
“To act is to feel the unseen.”

Jeeny: (reading from her phone, softly) “Christine Ebersole once said, ‘I experience psychic phenomena, so people think I must be crazy. But you have to be accessible and intelligent to be a good actor. I might not have gotten the best grades in school, but I have a very high level of emotional intelligence. You have to be open to receive.’”

Jack: (leans back, amused) “Psychic phenomena, huh? You’d fit right in with that.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You mean believing that emotions are signals, not accidents?”

Jack: “No, I mean believing in invisible forces. You always talk like there’s a conversation happening behind the silence.”

Jeeny: “That’s because there is. You just don’t listen for it.”

Jack: (half-grinning) “I’m listening right now.”

Jeeny: “No. You’re hearing words. Listening happens when you drop the armor.”

Host: The lights dimmed further, the remaining glow pooling around their feet like spilled honey. The rain began again, gentler this time — like someone whispering secrets against the windows.

The stage was silent, but something electric pulsed through the air — not sound, not sight, but presence.

Jack: “You know, I always thought acting was lying beautifully. Pretending with conviction.”

Jeeny: “It’s the opposite. Acting is truth under disguise.”

Jack: “Truth wearing makeup.”

Jeeny: “No. Truth wearing vulnerability. Christine’s right — you have to be open to receive. That’s not acting. That’s surrender.”

Jack: “And the psychic stuff?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about ghosts, Jack. It’s about energy. Every human carries frequency — you can feel it if you’re quiet enough. Good actors tune into that. They don’t invent emotion; they translate it.”

Jack: (skeptical) “Sounds mystical.”

Jeeny: “Everything real is mystical once you stop trying to measure it.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the curtains. Somewhere above, a light bulb popped faintly, sending a brief flash across Jeeny’s face — her eyes shining, unwavering. She looked less like someone talking and more like someone channeling.

Jack: (softly) “So emotional intelligence is psychic sensitivity?”

Jeeny: “In a way. It’s empathy with precision. The ability to feel what another person feels before they say it.”

Jack: “That sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It is. But it’s also sacred. You become a vessel — and that’s what great acting is: becoming porous enough for truth to move through you.”

Jack: “You’re saying the best performers aren’t acting — they’re allowing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They’re receiving. Christine called it being open — that’s the secret.”

Jack: “But doesn’t that make you fragile?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s why it’s powerful.”

Host: The sound of the rain deepened, steady and hypnotic. The footlights flickered, and for a heartbeat, their reflections in the stage floor looked doubled — two sets of selves, performer and soul, blending in the shimmer.

Jack: “You know, that reminds me of something I read once — that emotional intelligence is knowing where your pain ends and someone else’s begins.”

Jeeny: “That’s empathy with boundaries. Acting goes further — it erases the line completely, just long enough to become another person without losing yourself.”

Jack: “So it’s controlled possession.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “Exactly. That’s why Christine called it psychic. Because to channel emotion truthfully, you have to dissolve ego. You have to step into someone’s heartbeat.”

Jack: “And people think that’s crazy.”

Jeeny: “They call it crazy because it scares them. Because deep feeling always does.”

Jack: “You’re not afraid of that?”

Jeeny: “I used to be. But now I see emotion as language — and I’d rather speak fluently than stay silent.”

Host: The light shimmered on her face, and Jack watched her closely — not romantically, but curiously, as if seeing something rare: someone present.

Outside, thunder rolled faintly — a long, slow rumble that sounded less like anger and more like acknowledgment.

Jack: “So intelligence isn’t just about thinking.”

Jeeny: “It never was. Thinking’s mechanical. Feeling’s interpretive.”

Jack: “But society rewards logic, not sensitivity.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s why artists are often misunderstood — they’re translating languages most people stopped speaking as children.”

Jack: “The language of the heart.”

Jeeny: “The language of the unseen.”

Jack: “And the risk is?”

Jeeny: “You drown in it. Or you become it. There’s no middle ground.”

Host: A piano note rang faintly in the background — accidental, someone brushing a key backstage. It hung in the air longer than it should have, resonating softly through the empty theater.

Both of them paused, listening.

Jeeny: (whispers) “See? That sound — you felt it, didn’t you?”

Jack: (after a moment) “Yeah. It hit me before I could think about it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the space Christine meant. The space between thought and reception. Where meaning lives before words arrive.”

Jack: “So emotional intelligence is just — trust.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Trust that feeling isn’t weakness. It’s radar.”

Jack: “And being open to receive means letting the world move through you without breaking you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The strongest souls aren’t the armored ones. They’re the translucent ones.”

Host: The rain began again, heavier now, each drop distinct. The rhythm filled the theater, steady and pure, like applause from an unseen audience.

The two sat in silence, surrounded by sound — the kind that doesn’t need interpretation.

Jack: “You know, for someone skeptical, I think I’m starting to understand her. Psychic or not, she’s talking about faith in feeling.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s all it is — faith that what moves through you isn’t madness, it’s meaning.”

Jack: “And the actor’s job?”

Jeeny: “To hold the mirror steady while emotion passes across it.”

Jack: “Without flinching.”

Jeeny: “Without pretending.”

Host: Jeeny stood slowly, walking toward the edge of the stage. The light followed her, dim but faithful. She turned back toward Jack, the glow framing her like an old portrait.

The theater felt holy now — not because of religion, but because of presence.

Jack: (softly) “So, to be a good actor — to be a good human — you have to stay open, even when it hurts.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because closed hearts can’t tell stories.”

Jack: “And open ones bleed beauty.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Now you’re listening.”

Host: The camera pulled back, revealing the two small figures in the wide space — one lamp, one stage, one shared silence charged with invisible music.

The rain outside softened to a whisper, the sound of the world exhaling.

And as the scene faded, Christine Ebersole’s words lingered like the final note of an unseen symphony —

that emotional intelligence is not intellect,
but attunement;

that the truly creative are not mad,
but receptive;

and that the highest form of art,
and of living,
is not control,
but the courage to remain open,

to feel the invisible currents,
to receive what others deny,
and to let that mystery
speak — through you,
and beyond you —
in the trembling language
of truth.